


Seven Steps in a Proper Romance

by Jarakrisafis



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26308690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: There are seven steps in a proper dwarven romance. Never let it be said that Duran Aeducan will not do things correctly.
Relationships: Male Aeducan/Gorim Saelac
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Seven Steps in a Proper Romance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missveils (Missveils)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missveils/gifts).



There are two hundred and forty seven steps between House Saelac and House Aeducan. Gorim knows this because he, in a fit of boredom one day, counted them all. Now he barely pauses as he bounds up the last few and nods at the Aeducan House guards who are on duty today.

"Cousin, anything interesting planned for today?"

Gorim shrugs a shoulder, feeling the mail under the heavy armour shift. "Not that I'm aware of." That does not, however, rule out Duran deciding they're going to do something just because he feels like it. Nobles can be very unpredictable at times. Not that he'd change his job, or Duran. Just some knowledge of what he's walking into each morning might be nice.

He ignores their amusement and strides through the doors, his feet steering him down the right passageway without his conscious input. Nor does he stop at the door, letting himself in as he usually does. Duran apparently got tired of having to get out of bed just to find it's him.

"Gorim. Are you early?"

He raises an eyebrow and leans against one of the stone columns. "Right on time." They'd announced the hour as he passed through the Commons, so if you wanted to get pedantic he was a couple of minutes late. He certainly wasn't early. Yet here was Duran, up and awake and pacing back and forth in front of his bed. "What have you done this time?"

"Nothing." Duran says, whirling round with an affronted look. "Well, sort of nothing," he amends.

Gorim waits.

"Look, the thing is." Duran starts before raising a hand to run through his hair. "I sort of, ah, I just..."

Okay, now he's very intrigued.

Duran picks up a package that's wrapped in plain undyed cloth and presents it. Gorim takes it without a word, a slight frown settling on his face. It's not the first thing Duran has bought him, all his arms and armour were gifts, as is expected. A sign of appreciation from the primary house for the service that will be rendered. But he's not broken anything recently that needs replacing, so he can't think what this might be.

He pulls the twine apart, ignoring the way Duran is watching him like a deepstalker. The cloth pulls away to show a deep purple fabric. He runs a couple of fingers across it just to be sure it is what his eyes suggest. Well. He shakes it out, admiring the cut. Purple silk, not something a warrior could ever afford and Duran knows it.

If he wears this... Everybody would know he has an admirer from a higher caste. He raises wide eyes to Duran as that thought settles. Is he?

"You like it?" Duran asks hesitantly, "I borrowed one of your tunics to get it made the right size and I didn't know what colours you might like but I thought this might look good on you and I'm sorry that..."

"Duran. Breathe." He cuts him off, he's rambling. He only does that when he's really nervous. "Are you trying to court me?" If Gorim doesn't ask he'll be guessing for weeks.

"Yes?" One foot scuffs on the floor. "I mean, can I?"

Gorim chuckles, "one usually asks for permission before giving the first gift, you ridiculous man. But yes. I love it and yes you can court me."

The smile that lights up his face makes Gorim return it without even thinking about it.

* * *

There are twenty-two sculptures between House Saelac and House Aeducan. Gorim knows this because he’s just counted them all while trying to distract himself. Also to pass some time. Bursting into Duran's bedroom nearly an hour earlier than he’s due will not endear him to his paramour. Duran is certainly not lazy, but unless darkspawn are breaking in, he doesn’t get up earlier than he has to.

Gorim has no doubt that should he try to persuade him to get up earlier he’ll be treated the same as a darkspawn. The servants, the ones that are used to seeing him are giving him sympathetic looks. One even had the generosity to bring him a small bowl of what might have been leftovers from last night's mushroom stew. He was hungry enough to not care as long as it was edible, which was actually all it had going for it.

He’s regretting it now as the time gets ever closer to the hour. His stomach doesn’t want to stay still. It has been fourteen days and Gorim is sure that Duran intends to do this right, the romantic bastard. So today will be the time he’ll present him with the next gift. It’s also the last time Gorim can back out without losing face, so no doubt Duran’s going to be just as nervous.

He slips in as the hour is called, a servant letting the house know that the drums in the commons have marked time from the big waterclock. The room is silent and Gorim shakes his head at the mound of furs on the bed, a vaguely dwarven-shaped lump underneath them.

“Gorim?” A muffled voice emerges, along with a tousled head, “Oh. I wanted to be up.”

“'You' and 'up' do not go well together,” Gorim says as he makes his way to the armour stand, making sure everything is in place and ready to be used while the thumping and odd curse lets him know Duran is at least out of bed.

“Stop fussing,” Duran says as footsteps approach, “I doubt anything has changed since you hung it up last night.” Gorim straightens up, acknowledging just to himself, that he might indeed have been trying to keep busy.

He can almost feel his heart skip a beat when he turns round. There’s something endearing about the amount of trust Duran must have to be seen with unbraided hair and a loose sleep shirt hanging off one shoulder. And he does indeed have another wrapped package he’s clutching in his arms. If it was for anything else Gorim would take his time, draw it out - he can’t bring himself to tease him, not when he’s clearly so nervous already.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting - although he knows the rough theme; the second present is based on the merchant caste - which actually doesn’t narrow it down much, not like some of the later gifts might. A book would not have been his first thought, he hadn’t realised Duran knew he enjoyed reading. It’s not like he can indulge while on duty.

He can’t stop the whistle that escapes from between his teeth at the gold leaf on the plain black binding. This is a limited edition print from the surface. He runs a gentle finger down the spine in awe. Duran shifts from one foot to the other and Gorim realises he’s been silently admiring it and hasn’t said a word. “It’s beautiful.”

Duran relaxes with an almost audible release of air. “I wasn’t sure you’d like it, I mean I had to ask around to find out what you like and then I had to be careful because I couldn’t let them know it was courting gifts not birthing day gifts and...”

Gorim cuts him off by stepping in and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Go and put some proper pants on unless you want those showing under your armour.” Much as it would be amusing to see Duran wander out and about with the old worn blue silk he tends to favour for sleeping in, Gorim would not be so lax at his job as to not at the very least, remind him to change.

Duran blinks, one hand lifting to touch his cheek before looking down at himself and nodding, “yeah, pants. Right.”

Gorim puts the book away safely on a shelf with a fond smile as Duran turns away to go find some more appropriate clothing for actually leaving his room. The next fourteen days can’t pass fast enough.

* * *

There are twelve steps between his bed and the door. Gorim knows this because he’s paced back and forth enough times to know exactly how much space he’s got between them. It also means he’s quite competent in going from bed to door while half asleep without hitting his feet on his chest or the end of his bed. Neither of those objects are forgiving to toes that are not well armoured.

He pulls the door open, wondering for a moment if he’s overslept, but no, the hallway is still mostly dark, only the odd lantern burning. Enough for the servants to see and work by, but not wasting any extra fuel. They are not a noble house that can afford to keep them burning no matter the time. And talking of servants, his visitor is not one of the servants coming to wake him as he expected. It’s a very out of place noble who’s looking far too awake for this time of the morning. How is he even awake? Gorim reaches out, snagging a wrist and hauls him into his room and shuts the door.

Duran puts the parcel he was carrying down on the bed, the weight making a clear dip in the bedding. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says as he wanders over to look at the tapestry Gorim has on his wall.

“I can see that,” Gorim says, tone as flat as he can make it so he doesn’t just burst out laughing. “You’ve got a braid in back to front, your surcoat’s on back to front and one of your tassets is buckled in the wrong place.” Duran tries to peer over one armoured shoulder with a perplexed look, as if he’s not sure how his house emblem could have ended up on his back. “Honestly, you shouldn’t be let out alone.” Gorim says as he kneels down to fix the tasset.

“That’s why I have you,” he says promptly, a hint of amusement in the tone. Gorim freezes for a moment at the hand that settles on his head; a gentle touch just brushing through his hair as he works. He smiles, leaning just a little into the hand before getting up.

“So, am I allowed to see whatever was keeping you up?”

“Yes. Before I just open it for you.”

He chuckles and goes to fetch a small blade to cut through the twine. Whatever is inside this one, it’s been very well secured. He whistles as the paper falls away, fingers running over the wooden box, ghosting over the smooth gemstones set into the lid to create a tiny House Saelac symbol in quite frankly intricate detail. Inside is just as decadent, a deep blue velvet lining for a full set of blade polishing tools and sanding stones.

“Do you like it?”

Gorim whirls round at the amount of trepidation in the question, realising rather belatedly that he’d just been staring rather stupidly at it. “It’s wonderful,” he assures him, wrapping his arms round him in a quick hug. Duran has a huge smile on his face as Gorim closes the box and moves it onto his shelf; relegating his old battered set to the end of his bed to find a new home later. “Now come here so I can sort your surcoat out.” Duran dutifully bows his head so Gorim can tug it off, turn it round and throw it back over his head.

“Wonder how many people saw that.” Duran wonders as he smooths a hand over the embroidery at his breast. “And not one of them stopped me.”

Gorim doesn’t let Duran know that most people are so in awe of him that they wouldn’t dare say a word. Stone bless, but he can be so oblivious at times.

* * *

There are forty-four torches between House Saelac and House Aeducan. Gorim knows this because he counted them the morning he was roused out of bed well before sixth bell and was sent to stand guard at Duran’s door. Somebody, and they never found out who - at least not to his knowledge - had decided to try and poison the royal family. He’d spent three nights quite literally sleeping behind the door into Duran’s bedchamber so that if anyone tried to sneak in to finish the job, they’d wake him up.

Not the most comfortable nights he’d spent in his life. If he’d known he’d be camping out he’d have spent the time he took counting the torches, frustrated that he’d been called out in the early hours when a lot of the servants worked, to instead run back and gather some comforts. A pillow might have been a good start. After that he asked for permission to move a few things into a small chest that is kept in Duran’s room. It means when they get back this time, well after the last bell has rung and the only other ones out in the halls are the night guard and the servants cleaning, he doesn’t have to take the long trek back to his own house.

He stores Duran’s armour in its usual spot as normal before jumping when he twists round to get his own off to find Duran still right behind him. He doesn’t protest as his fingers are pushed away. It’s too late and he’s too tired to protest that this isn’t Duran’s job. His is stacked against the wall. He’ll have to get up early to go over both sets because if he checks them now who knows what he could miss.

The couch, the big one that’s long enough for a human, let alone a dwarf to stretch out on is calling him ever closer. And despite how much Duran apologises that he has to sleep on it, Gorim maintains it’s just as comfortable as his bed, just a little narrower.

“Gorim, I know it’s late.” he peers at Duran who’s looking vaguely apologetic in just his night tunic, “but it’s technically tomorrow now and I couldn’t wait.”

It’s a small package this time, a small leather bag that can fit in the palm of his hand. He walks the last few steps to the couch sitting down at the end closest to the fireplace. Dwarven eyes are good, but he suspects the extra light will help.

He tips the leather out, bright copper and deep blue gathering in his other palm in a soft chime of metal. His eyes widen as he puts the bag down and picks one up, twisting it to find the small artisan mark. It’s easy to find and easier to recognise, a house that focuses on jewellery, with a reputation for quality work. The impressed whistle slips out of him as he holds one up, letting the delicate geometry painstakingly imprinted into the metal catch the light. The sapphires catch the firelight too, glittering from each tiny faceted gem.

If he wants a way to let his parents know that he won’t be courting anyone, and no doubt they’ll be pleased about that given the tradition that the higher ranked house do the courting - House Saelac outranks nearly every other warrior house, so they expect to be doing the gift giving, all he’d have to do is wear all of these.

It’s not forbidden to court somebody of lower caste, just so unusual, there’d be no end of questions and eyes on them if he wore them. Perhaps in a few weeks when everything is done and nothing can be changed; he’ll wear them then.

“You know me far too well,” he says to Duran as he carefully tips them back into their bag. “Thank you.”

* * *

There are five separate ways to get into the Diamond Quarter unseen between House Saelac and House Aeducan. Gorim knows this because at some point or another he’s used them all. The servants' passageways may be roughly cut and dim, but they are excellent shortcuts. If he takes the main thoroughfare he often risks being stopped by dwarva wanting him to take messages or gifts to Duran.

Or even worse, him being stopped on his own merits because he’s from one of the highest ranked warrior caste houses. If he wants to stop them approaching he either has to avoid them or show that he’s spoken for. And he doesn’t feel like having all his nosy relatives trying to work out who he’s courting. Or if they get lucky, work out that it's him that’s being courted. He wouldn’t get a moment's peace to himself from the gossip.

He enters House Aeducan through the kitchen. Most of the servants greet him politely and he does the same in return, he long ago learnt that the nicer you are to the servant caste the more likely it is that they’ll cover for you. Duran learnt from his example and the servants, while fastidious about using his rank and bowing, won’t say a word when he too uses their passageways to hide away.

Apart from not running into anyone he doesn’t want to speak to, coming from the kitchen also lets him slip in unnoticed to Duran’s room. The servant who just brought Duran his breakfast winks and nods when Gorim carefully lifts a hand to give the sign-gesture for silence.

The soft rumble of a barely audible tavern song fills the air as Duran wrangles his hair and beard into lying straight instead of a tangle of knots. Gorim is loathe to break the calm but he’s well aware that Duran has more than likely already forgotten the breakfast that is going cold beside the fire. After all, it's not the first time Gorim’s come in to find him busy with something and an uneaten meal.

“If you don’t eat, you’ll make the cook sad.”

Duran jumps, spinning round and nearly tipping himself off the bed where he’d been sitting cross legged. “Ancestor's stone-sodding tits! Don’t do that.”

Gorim chuckles, grabbing the tray as he goes past and all but shoving it into Duran’s lap. “Eat your breakfast.” He takes the brush away from him and takes his shoes off. Duran freezes when he climbs onto the bed and settles down behind him. Duran, of course, ignores the food and tries to turn and look at him. “Breakfast.” Gorim repeats and pushes his head back round as he starts to disentangle the last few stubborn knots.

He’s seen Duran’s usual array of braids enough to know how to put them in correctly so it’s not hard to get it sorted. About as long as it takes for Duran to finish off his breakfast and realise he’s started to lean back into Gorim’s hands as he works.

“Your package is on the table.”

Gorim presumes he means the side-table, where there’s a large box taking up most of the space on the surface. “What did you do, buy me an entire armoury?”

Duran shrugs a little, putting the empty tray on the floor and kicking it out of reach with a foot. “If I did, it’d only be because you deserve it.

Gorim opens the edge of the box, the contents aren’t unexpected, he had already guessed that he’d be ending up with new armour. He didn’t expect the fact that it’s near-identical to Duran’s. He brushes a hand over the breastplate that’s stacked at the top, the metal cold under his fingers as he traces over the symbol etched in the centre. “You’re spoiling me,” he finally says, wrapping his arms around Duran who melts into the hug.

“Get used to it.”

* * *

There are three loving parents to try and avoid between the training grounds and Duran’s room. Gorim remembers this when they run into his mother. Quite literally in fact. Duran yelps, spinning to one side to avoid crashing into her with his full weight and momentum and Gorim has to reach out a hand to keep him on his feet. Duran is not used to people standing in his way and not moving aside. Not showing the proper respect to a member of the royal family is a punishable offence.

Gorim registers the softly tapping foot with a sense of dread. Beside him there’s a barely audible, “uh-oh” from Duran as the Prince hunches into his armour like a scolded nug. She hasn’t even had to say anything yet. Clearly punishing her for getting in his way is the last thing on Duran’s mind right now. Not that he would anyway, he’s far too soft sometimes. Unless you’re actually sticking a blade into him he really couldn’t care. He just wants to protect Orzammar from the darkspawn, fighting over anything else is far too much effort. Gorim is quite happy to adopt the same attitude.

“Gorim,” she says, her chin resting on her hands which are in turn resting on the haft of the battleaxe she uses. “Prince Duran.” He has to resist the urge to fidget as he waits. “You haven’t forgotten to tell me anything have you?”

“Ah,” Duran starts and Gorim resists the urge to introduce his hand to his face - mainly because he’s not got his helmet on but he does still have his gauntlet on and that would hurt. If she wasn’t suspicious before she is now. Gorim’s from a big family, by dwarven standards at least. His mother has raised seven children, four her own and three of Gorim’s cousins, getting through the brontoshit they all pulled is probably an instinctual skill by now.

One eyebrow raises. Duran attempts to take a step back. Not quick enough as her hand latches onto his belt and keeps him from running away. Gorim ignores the quick pleading look he’s sent. He is sworn to defend his Prince, but this isn’t a battle he can win or even wants to attempt. “Talk Aeducan or we can go to the training grounds to talk.”

Duran’s head dips, no doubt to her battleaxe and then back up at her. He’s going to cave, Gorim can see it. “I’mcourtingGorim,” he says in a rush.

“Pardon?”

“I’m courting Gorim,” he repeats, a touch louder and slower, but no less nervously.

“That’s what I thought you said. Why am I only finding this out now?”

“Uhhh… We didn’t want to bother you?” Duran tries, wincing at her indignant huff.

“How did you know anyway?” Gorim asks, curious as to what gave them away and wanting to redirect the conversation.

She smiles, reaching up to pat his shoulder, “I know the weapons of all my house, that isn’t one of them.” She taps the pommel of his new sword. “And I’ve been a mother long enough to recognise a courting gift when I see one, even if I wasn’t expecting you to be the one receiving them.”

“Oh,” Gorim says rather blankly; he should have thought of that.

Duran shifts his weight, apparently still unsure if he’s in trouble or not and she chuckles, “Oh, you, I’m not angry at you.” She smiles and Duran relaxes. “I’m more surprised how you kept it quiet.” A wicked grin crosses her face, “do let me know when you intend to tell my idiot husband and the idiot on the throne.”

* * *

There are twenty nine steps between Duran’s bed and his door. Gorim knows this because he counted out how long it would take him to reach Duran’s side at one point. Right now he’s not reaching anywhere, stopped as he is halfway between the door and the bed. The half of his brain that is still functioning - a very small part he must admit - is glad that he turned the key when he came in. The other half of his mind has come to a stuttering, gaping stop.

“You know,” he says as he gets his feet in working order again so that he can approach the bed, “I’m not sure what the present is today,” he points out with a smirk as he lets his eyes wander.

Duran grins, bright and infectious even as a light blush covers his cheeks. He pats the wrapped parcel beside one thigh. It doesn’t help as Gorim has to tear his eyes away from the temptation so close by. There are rules that must be observed. All seven gifts must be presented, opened and accepted before anything else should occur.

The loosely wrapped linen unfolds easily, letting Gorim draw out another tunic. This one puts the first to shame. The same purple, but fully embroidered with gold thread, and his House symbol is displayed to the right of House Aeducan’s. It’s jarring to see that. Good though. He’s so used to his symbol being smaller and to the left to indicate his service as a Second. To have it in the place that marks him as a partner is strange.

“Beautiful as ever,” he says, carefully laying it on a chest to one side so it won’t get damaged. Gorim has a feeling they will not be making it to arms practice today.

“Me or the tunic?” Duran asks boldly.

Gorim laughs as he sits back down on the edge of the bed, letting his hand rest on skin that before now he could only imagine touching. “Both.”

Duran smiles, a bright grin that has nothing of the forced politeness he shows around the halls. This is the sort of smile Gorim only ever sees in private. He hopes he gets to see it more often now. He feels hands on his belt as he pulls his tunic over his head, grumbling when his braids get caught.

Of course they could take their time. Could. Gorim feels like they’ve not gone through this entire courtship, ensuring they stick to the correct proprieties just to be patient for any longer than necessary. Duran clearly feels the same way. Clearly waiting naked on the bed was a good plan, less time taken in getting out of stubborn clothing. His boots are kicked off, lost somewhere against the far wall and Duran’s hands are there to divest him of his breeches.

They fall back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and soft cursing as Gorim pushes himself up to crouch over his Prince. Their lips meet, tender yet scorching, weeks of waiting warring with the need to draw it out; to savour the sensations.

Impatience wins, Duran shifting his hips, pressing up and Gorim gasps at the contact as their cocks shift against the other. “Duran.” A hand wraps round him, warm heat, and a gentle touch that’s far too like teasing for his taste. “Please. Am not made of glass.”

Duran chuckles, hand tightening round Gorim’s cock and he rocks into it, his head dropping onto Duran’s chest. This, this wasn’t what he intended. He can’t fight it though. Doesn’t and won’t, nothing matters except the building orgasm, the heat pooling low in his belly, coiling tighter and tighter.

He doesn’t black out. Not exactly, his arms do give out though and he sprawl over Duran who wraps him in his arms until he’s stopped shaking. “You,” Gorim mutters roughly. “you’ve not..."

“Later.” Gorim can hear the happiness, and a hint of smugness in Duran’s voice, “we’ve got all day.”


End file.
